


The grand facade so soon will burn

by desertspring09



Series: In Your Eyes [3]
Category: The Black Tapes Podcast
Genre: 1/3 Strand being willfully obtuse, 1/3 fluff, 1/3 smut, Alex looks pretty in floral dresses, F/M, I'm apparently writing a smut progression, Strand is a wine snob, my plot bunnies turned into smut bunnies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-15
Updated: 2016-08-15
Packaged: 2018-08-08 21:15:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7773640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/desertspring09/pseuds/desertspring09
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He hummed a little, studying the glass in his hands. “It's complicated, Alex.”</p><p>“You always say that. But you never tell me why.”</p><p>He held his tongue.</p><p>"I feel like I'm on the wrong side of two-way glass with you. You can see me, but I can't see you.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The grand facade so soon will burn

**Author's Note:**

> Considering this series already got a little bit Jossed by 2x10/2x11, you can consider this either pre-2x10 or its own AU, splitting off just before 2x10. We'll see how the finale shakes out, huh?

Alex Reagan peered into the entryway mirror as she put on the finishing touches-- a swipe of lipstick, and there, she was done. The woman who looked back at her had straight brown hair pulled up off her face in a bun, very chic. The dark circles that usually haunted her eyes had been carefully concealed with makeup, and her lips were a vibrant gash of glossy crimson. The expression on her face was one of curiosity, her brows knitted together as she took in her reflection.  
  
She shifted to evaluate her ensemble. She wore a burgundy cardigan over a knee-length sundress dotted with vivid yellow flowers, and red ballerina flats on her feet. A small golden heart pendant-- a gift from her mother, long neglected-- sat against her collarbones, completing the look.  
  
She looked-- well, she looked _good_. There was no denying that.  
  
She also looked completely alien, even to herself.   
  
She sighed. _You have to do this_ , she thought. _Doctor's orders_.  
  
This week, Dr. Bernier had asked her to try something new. In the months since her insomnia began, Alex had noticed a distinct change in her looks, and not only in the troubling thinness that had revealed itself in the jut of her hipbones and the hollow of her cheeks. Unless she had professional duties out of the studio ( _or she expected Strand to show up_ , her mind interjected dryly), she'd put a bare minimum of effort into her appearance. Even Nic, who practically lived in his old band tee shirts and well-worn Converse, had remarked on it-- how she wore the same ratty old black cardigan every day, her hair growing more and more unkempt.  
  
“If you look good, you'll start to feel good, too,” Dr. Bernier had said. “Our appearance has a lot to do with how we feel, Alex. It can affect our self-esteem, our anxiety levels. All of that ties into getting a good night's sleep.” She smiled at Alex, radiating a motherly warmth. “Here's your homework for this week: I want you to take yourself on a date. Put on an outfit that makes you feel attractive. Break out your favorite lipstick, or give yourself permission to spend time on something frivolous, like painting your nails. Pick something that helps you feel more polished, whatever it is. And then take yourself out. Do something you like to do. Try to enjoy yourself for a few hours without thinking about work.”  
  
To be honest, just the concept of _not_ thinking about work gave Alex anxiety. Which, of course, probably meant that Dr. Bernier knew what she was talking about.  
  
It was a rare sunny day in Seattle, and a Sunday to boot. A few blocks from her apartment, a farmers' market was in full swing. There was also little French patisserie known for its delicious, intricate pastries that she wanted to visit. All things considered, it was the perfect day to take herself out on a date. She tucked one escaped tendril of hair behind her ear and swiped her wallet from the side table. A careworn, oversized PNWS tote bag came down from the hook on the wall. She locked the door behind her.   
  
The world outside her apartment was startlingly bright. Alex eased her sunglasses over the bridge of her nose as her eyes adjusted to the light, the heat of the pavement seeping up to warm the soles of her feet. A light breeze stirred, carrying with it the inviting scent of someone's patio barbeque. She breathed deeply as she began to walk towards her destination, the air redolent with meat and delicious spices.  
  
It wasn't long until she arrived at the market, which was set up on the front lot of a community center, its vendors dotting the asphalt like an impromptu tent city. One of them boasted a case of breads in all shapes and sizes-- long, golden brown baguettes, fat loaves of ciabatta, and thick, cross-marked rounds of soda bread dotted with raisins. She inhaled the tempting bouquet of yeast and flour before making her choice: a package of triple ginger muffins with candied lemon peel on top. She was terrible about remembering to eat breakfast, but she knew the muffins wouldn't last long in her pantry.  
  
She passed over the cheese vendor quickly, noting that they were already out of her favorite blueberry chèvre. A farm stall was next, and she handed the woman behind the cash box a ten in exchange for a small basket of colorful cherry tomatoes and a jar of bourbon peach preserves.  
  
The honey vendor coaxed her over with samples of their newest offering, a malty, mallowroot-infused honey that shone like amber in the sun, but Alex tactfully declined. She never quite finished jars of honey, and several of them sat pitifully at the back of her pantry, their tops fair cemented to their glass lips, impossible to open. Instead, she made her way to the wine tent, where the red-cheeked man there was enthusiastically passing out tiny thimblefuls of his wares in the miniature plastic cups she remembered from Holy Communion. Smiling, she sampled his rosé and his port before settling on a red blend he promised would feel like velvet going down. _That_ , she thought, _sounds like a perfect wine for a date night with Netflix._ She waited patiently while he wrapped her bottle in a sheaf of newspaper, then settled it carefully into her now-sagging tote.  
  
Her final stop was the flower stall. _What's a first date without flowers?_ she thought, a bit ruefully. The bouquets that lined the tent were a riot of color-- intense fuchsia stargazer lilies twined around vibrant orange poppies and white roses. She took her time, evaluating her choices carefully. The key was to choose lilies that had not quite opened yet, so she would have longer to enjoy their deliciously spicy perfume. She carefully poked through several baskets of flowers until she settled upon her choice: a bouquet of sunny Asiatic lilies, golden yellow sunflowers, coral rosebuds, and a tall, silky purplish bloom she could not place. They weren't as strongly fragrant as stargazers or roses, but they were cheerful and colorful, and would look lovely on her nightstand.  
  
By now, the sun was directly overhead, the heat of the day in full effect. She rolled up the sleeves to her cardigan and considered her next move. An iced coffee and pastry sounded like a wonderful way to continue her date. She hoped that they still had some chestnut éclairs left by the time she arrived.  
  
She wrinkled her nose, silently cursing her decision to not to bring the book she'd been reading. It was a biography of Eleanor Roosevelt, and fascinating though it was, it was a bit on the heavy side. She hadn't fancied the idea of hefting it around the market along with the rest of her purchases. But then she remembered The Stacks, the used bookstore not too far away. Cool and cavernous inside, the store was filled wall to wall with too many options to contemplate. Her pulse sped a little at the thought of exploring it for something to read. As a teen, other girls had spent their summers at the pool, showing off their tanned bodies and sneaking off behind the trees to make out with their boyfriends of the moment. But Alex? Alex got her thrills from adventuring in libraries and bookshops, carefully listing all of the books she wanted to read in her trusty black moleskin notebook. For Alex, bookstores were all about _possibility_ \-- and as far as she was concerned, the older and mustier, the better.  
  
She set off in the direction of The Stacks, excitement blossoming in her stomach. Sounds of a live band setting up near the market stalls carried the screeching, discordant sounds of feedback to her ears, and she picked up her pace to distance herself from it. As she walked, she gazed in the windows of the shops along the path. The salon was quite full, the stylists inside buzzing from one customer to another like busily pollinating bees. The pizza joint was practically overloaded, with a waiting list of people hovering near the door to gain access to one of the checker-topped, air conditioned tables inside.  
  
As she passed the menswear store, she felt a pang at the sight of the tall, gray-suited mannequins-- equal parts elation and anxiety. It had been a week since she'd kissed Strand. At the thought it-- the firm press of his lips against hers, the rough scrape of his evening stubble against her soft skin-- arousal sparked inside her, pooling warm in her belly and prickling deliciously up the nape of her neck. In the days that followed the kiss, they'd never been alone, and she was unsure if that was simply coincidence, or if it had been by design. After all, it was at his insistence that they were taking it slow. But slow was hard for her, and she'd spent several restless nights with one hand snaking up to her parted lips, the other in her underpants.  
  
More than once in the past week, she'd found herself surreptitiously searching his face for any acknowledgment of that night at the station, only to find him his usual task-oriented self, detailing his latest findings in his customary, self-assured tone. She could tell that there was something weighing on him, something unsaid that had settled like a stone upon his shoulders. If he were any other subject, she would have no problem prying the secret out of him, either by cajoling or by force. But Strand-- with all of the strange, intangible emotional attachments that came with him-- well. She was trying to be a little more patient. She would uncover his secret, one way or another, but she'd at least give him a few more days to tell her first.  
  
Before she realized it, Alex was standing in front of the large bay windows of The Stacks, the door to the shop painted an inviting sky blue. She stepped inside and let the cool, dry air wash over her as she removed her sunglasses. She took a deep breath, noting the faintly vanilla scent of old bindings and lignin. With a pleasant nod, she acknowledged the storekeeper, a short, balding man in his seventies who always wore bifocals, a bow tie, and a large smile. Readjusting her tote so that she wouldn't crush the flowers poking out of its top, she wandered towards the back of the store, where the shelves were the tallest.  
  
She passed the travel and philosophy sections, then came to stand before the religion and theology area, keen to see if she could find any information on the orders who had split off from the Benedictines. Fingering over the dusty spines, she scanned the titles: “The Last Letters of Thomas More,” “The Reformation,” “The Anglican Church: An Introduction.” Finally, she found what she'd been looking for, a thick tome titled “Monasteries of the Near East.” Flipping through to find the index page, she was pleased to see an entire third of the book dedicated to the Benedictine order, with a chapter specifically focusing on the Codex Gigas. She cradled the book into the crook of her arm. It was definitely work and not pleasure, but would no doubt prove useful to her growing research library.  
  
She wandered, zigzagging through the shelves to the far corner of the store, noting that she was the only customer until she heard the bell at the front ring. The shopkeeper engaged the new customer, their conversation a faint hum in the distance. Lazily, she browsed the vast history section until her eyes glazed over and she realized she was not actually registering any of the names on the shelves. With a sigh, she moved on.  
  
The next section, tucked not too far from where she had chosen her first book, was the romance aisle. Alex smiled as she took a step towards it, inwardly giggling at the titles. As silly as it made her feel, romance novels had long been her guilty pleasure-- at least, until she stopped having much time for pleasure reading at all. She marveled at just how many books could be written about raven-tressed pirate kings and sun-bronzed cowboys. Here, there were numerous Regency romances, with their buttoned-up, broody Dukes just waiting to fall in love with overlooked wallflowers of the Ton, or an endless parade of impoverished ladies. She found herself drawn to an entire shelf that had a distinctly Scottish theme, full of dog-eared novels whose covers depicted brawny, kilted highlanders supporting swooning heroines in their glossy, muscled arms. She skimmed over the synopses on the backs of a few of them, unsurprised to see just how many featured the willful daughter of some desperate English lord forced to marry some wealthy-- and of course, darkly handsome-- rugged clan chieftain. In the end, she chose a battered paperback, “A Scot In The Dark,” certain it would pair well with about half a bottle of the red wine in her bag.  
  
Whirling happily on her heel, she turned towards the register, nearly running smack into the store's only other customer in the process.  
  
“Alex?” The man sounded startled as he stepped back to take her in. “What are you doing here?”  
  
“Richard! Hi!” she yelped, hating just how squeaky her own voice sounded. She pulled her books to her chest, quickly hiding the smaller one from view. “I... uh, I'm on a date,” she finished, forcing herself to lower it to its normal tone.  
  
“Oh.” Strand said, as he fought to keep his voice from betraying the surprise he felt. He flicked his cool blue eyes from one side of the aisle to the other. “I suppose that explains...” he swept his hand in her direction, indicating her outfit. “Who is the lucky gentleman?”   
  
Alex looked fantastic. Of course, he almost always thought she looked attractive, even in her jeans and sneakers. But this-- this was something else. The neckline of her dress dipped invitingly, and the short hem showed off her legs to rousing effect. He knew he had no claim to her, but that didn't seem to matter at the moment. As his eyes settled on the bouquet of colorful flowers poking out of the top of her bag, he felt a spike of jealousy.   
  
"Why do you suppose it's a gentleman?" she asked.  
  
"Ah." He blinked. He clearly hadn't considered any other possibilities. "Allow me to rephrase. Who is the lucky person who has the pleasure of your company today. Better?"  
  
"Much," she grinned. “Well, uh. I am, I suppose."  
  
His brows rose in confusion. “I'm sorry? I don't follow.”  
  
“It's this thing that my sleep doctor wanted me to do. She told me to get dressed up and take myself out on a date. She thinks it might help me sleep better at night. Something about how self-esteem is tied to our sleep cycles.” She tilted her head to the side, indicating her ensemble. “So, _voilà._ Plus, it's supposed to help get my mind off of work."  
  
Relief washed over him in a cool wave. “I... see.” He shifted the heavy-looking pile of books in his arms. “How is your date going so far?”  
  
“Pretty good, I suppose. I stopped by the market on the way. Came in here to grab myself a book-- I was planning to head to Chez Marie next, to read and have some coffee.”  
  
“Aha.”  
  
She looked him over. More casually dressed than usual, he was nonetheless wearing an impeccably crisp grey dress shirt tucked into jeans. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up a little, the top two buttons at his collar undone. She swallowed thickly.  
  
“And you? What are you doing in my neck of the woods?” she asked, gesturing to his books, hopeful that the change in topic would distract him from asking about her choice in reading material.  
  
“Mr. Bilet was kind enough to set these aside for me, and I was just taking a final look to see if there was anything else I might like. He has quite the selection of rare books in his private collection-- this place came highly recommended.” He coughed. “I hadn't realized that it was so close to your apartment.”  
  
“Oh? Are you avoiding me, Dr. Strand?” she asked, in a way she hoped he'd recognize as flirtatious.  
  
“Not at all. In fact, I was planning to call you today.” He seemed not to have noticed, as his voice kept its usual matter-of-fact tone.  
  
“Really?” she asked, a bit hopefully.  
  
“Yes. I know that Nic is away at the moment, and I was hoping you'd be able to let me into the station. I left a research folder in the conference room, and would like to to retrieve it before my flight to Chicago tomorrow.”  
  
“Oh.” She deflated.  
  
“But I see that your time is spoken for today. I suppose it will have to wait. I wouldn't dream of contradicting your doctor.”  
  
“I mean, if it wouldn't take long...” her voice trailed off.   
  
He studied her face, noting the marked change in her expression. The concern on her brow, the slight slump of her shoulders. Disappointment. His heart sank. “No, clearly I'd be imposing. That was not my intention.”  
  
She tilted her head, looking up at the much taller man who fair loomed above her. “It's not that. I just... I'd hoped that maybe you'd want to see _me_. You know, outside of work.”  
  
Realization slammed into him like a freight train. _Oh_.  
  
He pushed his glasses higher up the bridge of his nose-- a fidgety notion he'd never quite been able to train himself out of. “Of course I do. It's just that...” He swallowed, searching for the words. “It's just that I've been so consumed with my work lately, as you know.”   
  
She attempted a forgiving smile, but her lips were so tightly pressed together it came out more like a lopsided quirk, warmth never quite reaching her eyes. “I've noticed.”  
  
He felt a flush creep up the back of his neck. “I assure you that I _do_ want to see you.” Apologizing was something he did so rarely that it always came out awkwardly, always just a little bit too formal, too stiff. “Please forgive me, there's no excuse.”  
  
“It's okay.” She sighed, then reconsidered. “Well, it's not _okay_ , but it is what it is. Come on, I have to pay for my book, and then we'll swing by the station.”  
  
He exhaled gratefully. As he turned towards the register, she stealthily tucked “A Scot In The Dark” back on the shelf before following his lead.

 

* * *

  
  
All told, the trip to PNWS didn't take very long. About fifteen minutes max, barely enough time for the sun-warmed leather seats of Strand's car too cool entirely once the air conditioning kicked in. Luckily for Strand, Alex carried a key for the station on her own key ring. She pushed it into the lock, and the outer door opened. Next, she quickly tapped the four-digit pin into the after-hours security system. There was a double-beep, and they were inside.  
  
“Go ahead and grab your folder. I have to get these flowers in some water before they wilt,” Alex called over her shoulder, heading for the kitchenette. There was a motley assembly of orphaned vases beneath the sink, and she plucked out a simple white one with a scalloped rim. She filled it with water, then eased the flowers inside before carrying the vase back into her office. Settling it on her desk, she gently arranged the blooms into a spray of vibrant color. A moment later, Strand followed her in.  
  
“Did you find it?” she asked, her back still turned.  
  
“It was right where I left it, thankfully.”  
  
“I wouldn't expect it to be anywhere else. The interns tend to cut out early on Fridays.”  
  
Strand hummed a little, and then, after a moment, abruptly laughed. “You keep that _here?”_ he asked.  
  
Alex turned, confused, and saw that his eyes had fallen on the bottle of wine sitting on her bookshelf. It was the malbec he'd given her after their return from California.  
  
“I would have thought you'd have finished it already,” he mused.  
  
Alex grinned. “I like to look at it,” she said, a little sheepishly.  
  
“I could always get you another bottle. If you wanted to drink it, that is.”  
  
“I'm sure you could. But it's the thought of it, you know? It's like some part of you is always around.”  
  
He turned towards her, searching her face. Alex stood before him, beautiful in the floral dress that warmed her skin and brought flecks of hazel gold out in her soft brown eyes. Wisps of hair had come loose from her bun, framing her face. She'd caught her lower lip between her teeth, a nervous habit he'd noted over the last few months. She was utterly lovely.  
  
Guilt lanced through him at the realization that he'd been neglecting her. It was true that he was busy, more and more with things he ought not share with her. Well, not yet, anyway. And it was equally true that some small part of him was terrified to let anyone else past his carefully-constructed facade. The suits, the ties-- they were his armor, his walls. But here he was, looking down at the woman who had pried her way through-- ready or not, here I come. How could he deny her now, especially her in her Sunday best?  
  
He ran a hand through his hair. “We could drink it together, perhaps? Or maybe go out for a drink?”  
  
She looked up at him, her expression softening. “We don't have to. I know you're too busy, but I appreciate the gesture.”  
  
“I really would like to,” he said. He was a mess. He had no idea how courtship worked, not after so long a hiatus. He had even less of an idea of how to balance it with all of the questions still swirling in their investigations. Still, he found that what he was saying was the truth. He really did want to spend time with her. “I believe I can clear a few hours this evening for you. If, of course, you're amenable?”  
  
Alex twisted her glossy red lips into a smile, genuine this time. “Well, we could go to a bar and spend sixty bucks on a bottle, or you could take me home and we could pop this open.” She held up the bottle from the farmer's market. “It's not fancy and French, but it does look tasty.”

 

* * *

 

“Welcome to my humble abode,” Alex said, as she keyed open the door to her apartment. “Mi casa es su casa and all that.”  
  
She carried her tote into the kitchen, removing the tomatoes from the bag to place them in her refrigerator. Strand followed her in, settling the vase of flowers gently down on her kitchen table.  
  
“Your home is very nice,” he said, as he looked around. “I like how open it is.” It was painted in soothing ivory with punctuations of vibrant color and smooth wood. The sunlight filtering through the window suffused the space with with a bright, airy warmth.   
  
“Thanks. When I was apartment hunting, I must have looked at about a dozen shoe boxes. When I saw this one, I practically wept for joy.” She turned to the cabinet, extracting two wine glasses from the shelf. “You hungry? There's a great Vietnamese place nearby that delivers.”  
  
“Not quite yet, thank you.” He watched as she moved gracefully around the kitchen. Digging into one drawer, she procured a wine opener and handed it to him, along with the bottle of red.  
  
“If you'd do the honors?”  
  
“Of course,” he answered, and set to work as she walked over to the stereo, fiddling with the knobs until soft, unobtrusive music filled the space. He reached for the glasses she'd set out, filling them each halfway with the garnet liquid. When she reappeared, he handed her one.   
  
“Kitchen or couch?” she asked.  
  
“Couch,” he answered, folding his tall form into her sofa. “So. Tell me, what happens now? All I ever talk about is work, and I believe that's against your doctor's instructions, am I right?”  
  
Alex sank next to him, shifting so her body was tilted towards him. Her knee settled against his, just barely touching, as she tucked one leg beneath her. “To tell you the truth, I'm no better these days.”  
  
She took a sip of the wine, holding it in her mouth for a moment as she probed its texture. The man at the wine stall had been telling the truth-- it was rich and velvety, with the taste of blackberries and something mellower, almost chocolatey. “Mmm, this is good. But then again, I'm no expert. What does your _far more sophisticated_ palette have to say on the matter?”  
  
He shot a look of mock annoyance her way in response to the teasing, then tasted his own glass. “It's... well, it's not a very nuanced blend, but the mouthfeel is nice. A serviceable drinking wine, I think, and certainly suited to our purpose.”  
  
“Which is what, exactly?”  
  
He chuckled, his deep baritone vibrating through her like an aftershock. “To drink until we're not this awkward anymore.”

 

* * *

 

“Did you want to kiss me? That night in the hotel room? I think you did, but I couldn't tell for sure.”   
  
Strand looked her over, her eyes bright as she finished her second glass and reached for a third. She was certainly feeling bolder, her smile now easy and quick, all lines of worry evaporated. More red lipstick now stained the rim of her glass than the bow of her lips. He liked seeing her this way. He wished she could always be so carefree. Maybe, someday, they could be. _And maybe that's wishful thinking_ , his thoughts intruded.  
  
“I... I certainly considered it,” he said, after a moment.   
  
“Then why didn't you?” she asked, dropping her gaze as she concentrated on pouring the wine into her glass. Only a little was left over when she was done, and she tipped the remainder into his.  
  
He hummed a little, studying the glass in his hands. “It's complicated, Alex.”  
  
“You always say that. But you never tell me why.”  
  
He held his tongue. How could he tell her? If she knew half the things he couldn't say, it would change everything. Irrevocably. And he wasn't quite ready for that, for her to see him with clear eyes. Not yet. Not when it almost certainly meant losing her.  
  
“I feel like I'm on the wrong side of two-way glass with you. You can see me, but I can't see you.” Sadness crept back into her tone, the raw honesty stabbing at him like a serrated knife.  
  
He held his gaze on the wine glass, unsure of where else to look.  
  
“I know there's something you're not telling me. I've been in this game for too long not to notice,” she continued, undeterred. “And that's one thing. Professionally, I can understand that. But you kissed me like the world was falling down, then spent a whole week pretending you didn't. _That's_ something else. Something I can't understand. I mean, it's not like you just _forgot_.”  
  
“Alex, I--”  
  
“Do you regret it?” Her eyes were searingly direct, forcing him to meet them.  
  
“Of _course_ not.” He raked a hand through his hair, exasperation evident in every movement. “I don't have a map for this, Alex.”  
  
She exhaled slowly, the lines of her body softening. “Richard, I don't need you to guide me. You need to go slow? Slow, I can do.” She shook her head, seemingly amused at a joke he couldn't grasp. “I might need to start buying triple-A batteries in bulk, but I'll manage. I just need to know that you want me, too. You can't just leave me hanging.”  
  
He nodded. “I see.” Then, after a beat, he tilted his head to the side. “Batteries?”  
  
Her eyebrows rose in surprise, and she barked a short laugh. “You can't be serious.” The puzzled expression remained on his face, unwavering, prompting hers to change to one of mock horror. “Oh my god, _you are_.”  
  
He quirked an eyebrow at her. “Explain?”  
  
“Well, you see, there are more things in this world that buzz than bees, Dr. Strand.” A touch of pink began to creep up her neck.  
  
“ _Oh_.” He breathed, realization dawning. “You think of me when you--?” He felt his dick twitch in his pants.  
  
“When I touch myself?” she finished for him, a little shyly. “Yeah. A lot, lately.”  
  
And now he was rock hard, his erection straining against the seam of his jeans. He shut his eyes, visions of Alex with her hand between her thighs playing across his the backs of his eyelids. In his mind, her eyes were closed, her mouth open and glistening as she writhed upon sheets that looked suspiciously like his own.  
  
“Show me,” he said.  
  
She froze. Her cheeks now matched her throat, the wine flush mingling with the scarlet hue of mortification. “You want me to... to masturbate for you?” she asked shakily. _I just said the word "masturbate" to Dr. Strand_ , she panicked.   
  
"Yes," He caught her eyes with his pale blue ones and held them fast, unembarassed. “I do. More than anything.”  
  
She inhaled deeply. “I... wow. I've never...” she stuttered, her mind whirling. _Oh my god. This can't be happening._ She swallowed.  "I don't know what to say."  
  
"You don't have to _say_ anything, Alex." Something in the force of his gaze made her breath catch. She wanted to please him. More than anything, in that moment, she wanted him to keep looking at her that way.  
  
“I think I might need some help to get started,” she said finally, rolling the hem of her skirt nervously between two fingers.  
  
He put down his glass, then took hers as well, pulling her smoothly into his lap so that she straddled him. As her thighs parted over his, the floaty fabric of her skirt fanned out easily. He ran his hand up her back, grasping the nape of her neck firmly in one hand as he pulled her lips down to his. “Happy to oblige,” he said, just before he captured her lower lip between his teeth.  
  
She sighed gratefully into his mouth, their tongues twining together. She tasted of wine, of blackberries and malty vanilla. With his other hand, he palmed her small breast, and she gasped as one thumb circled a nipple through the thin fabric. She echoed the movement in the tortuously slow, circular sway of her hips, pressing down against him until he rolled his hips up against her.  
  
He dropped the hand from her neck to cup her ass, his fingers digging into the cheek under her skirt, pressing her even closer to him. She jerked her hips against him, gasping as he hooked one thumb under the neckline of her dress to expose her nipple, which he sucked into his mouth, rounding on it with his tongue.  
  
“Oh god, oh god,” she mouthed, her voice hardly above a whisper. She felt her panties dampen against the the unyielding pressure of his cock.  
  
“Does that feel good?” He asked, as he moved lower to place soft kisses along the underside of her breast.  
  
“Mmmm, _yes_.” Her voice was breathy, far away.  
  
“Can you show me now?” He put both hands on her thighs, sliding them up just below the hem of her skirt.  
  
Blinking, as though waking from a dream, she pushed herself off of him, settling her back against the arm of the sofa. “I've never done this before,” she said. “I'm a little self-conscious.”  
  
“I want to see how you touch yourself when you think about me. Show me.”  
  
The request, nearly a command, was so fucking hot that her brain nearly short-circuited. She arranged herself, obediently spreading her thighs for his approval. She took a deep breath. "Okay."  
  
His pulse sped as he watched her move, slowly easing her skirt up her toned legs to rest around her hips. Her lips were pink and swollen from kissing, her brown eyes heavy-lidded with arousal. She dipped one hand into her underwear, a lacy pink thong he hadn't expected.  
  
“Do you always keep your underpants on when you touch yourself?” he asked her, his voice low and throaty.  
  
“Not usually, no.”  
  
“Then take them off, please.” He rested his hand over his groin, which was pleading for friction.  
  
She bit her lower lip anxiously, nevertheless complying with his request. She slid the panties down her legs, then tossed them to the side, a wave of tremulous desire crashing through her. How long had his voice been only in her head, night after night, as she satisfied her needs all alone? The fact he was here, on her sofa, watching her and telling her how to touch herself-- it was almost overwhelming. Her pulse pounded in the hollow of her throat.  
  
“Like this?” she asked, displaying herself for him, her desire to obey him overriding her apprehension.   
  
“Mmmm,” he answered, the gravelly exhalation momentarily stealing his ability to speak. “Much better.”  
  
Sighing with relief that she had pleased him, she closed her eyes, sliding one hand down between her legs. Dimly, she registered the sound of a zipper unzipping, and struggled to keep her eyes shut. She ground her hips up for better access, then gently rolled her tender, sensitive clit between two fingers.  
  
“Ah,” she breathed out, her other hand rising to cup her own face like the hand of a lover. Strand watched her intently as his hand slid along his erection. When her small, pink tongue darted out to moisten her lips, his cock jumped in response. She arched her back, causing the hard outline of her nipples to press against the taut fabric of her dress, her breath hitching with every movement of her long, thin fingers. Watching her was easily better than any erotica he'd ever seen.  
  
“When you think of me, what am I doing to you?” he asked, heat rising in his belly as his hand worked up and down.  
  
“Sometimes you're holding me tight from behind, touching me all over.” She drew in a sharp breath, then panted it back out, her fingers still working in a steady spiral. “Other times, you're pinning me to the wall, and you have your mouth on me.”  
  
“Where does my mouth go?” he asked, stroking himself so slowly it might as well constitute masochism. “Where do I kiss you?”  
  
“You, uh...” she began, distractedly. The part of her brain that covered speech was apparently not fully functional at the moment. She swallowed thickly. “Well. You start with my mouth, then my neck. And then--”  
  
“Say it,” he prodded, his deep voice positively sin incarnate.  
  
“Then you go down on me, and I come so hard I see stars.”  
  
_Oh fuck_ , he thought, _that is going to keep me up at night_.  
  
He found himself in front of her before he'd even registered that he'd moved at all. He knelt, a supplicant at her altar, his large hands sliding up her smooth thighs. With a jolt, he swiveled her hips towards him and placed a hot, wet kiss on the inside of her knee. His glasses came off almost as an afterthought, and he shoved them haphazardly across her wooden coffee table.   
  
Alex's eyes flew open in surprise, taking in the sight of Strand prostrate before her, her waking fantasy come to life. Two days' worth of stubble prickled against the sensitive skin of her inner thighs, assuring her that he was very much flesh and blood. _It's really happening. Holy fuck, this is really happening.  
  
_ He nipped at the skin tender flesh there, moving higher and higher, and a shower of sparks erupted behind her eyelids. After what seemed like eternity, he parted her even wider, and she felt the touch of his tongue precisely where she wanted it most. At first, he was gentle, with soft probing licks, but the encouraging sounds that escaped her quickly spurred him on to more vigorous attention.  
  
His face buried between her legs, Strand reached for one of her hands with his, threading their fingers together in a tight knot. He felt the fingers of her other hand work their way through his hair, gripping almost painfully as he sucked her clit gently into his mouth. He lost himself in her musky taste, the sound of her moans slightly muffled by the legs pressed firmly against either side of his head.  
  
After a moment, he broke the contact, and she gasped in disappointment until his free hand moved to stroke her, expertly moving up and down her cleft. He glanced up at her, and the look-- panting, desperate-- that she shot back at him made him shiver. With the sly grin of a devil who knew exactly what he was about to do, he sank two fingers into her. She pitched her head back in response, an insensate sob wrenched from her gasping lips.  
  
“Oh god,” she cried. “ _Oh god ohgod ohgod_.”  
  
He thrust inside her, curling his fingers to hit the spongy mound that made her quake. His mouth found her once more as he flickered across her clit with the tip of his tongue, his fingers moving vigorously within her. Her moans rose in pitch to a near whine. He knew she was close to the edge when her entire body went rigid beneath him.  
  
“God, fuck. Don't stop. Please, don't stop,” she pleaded with him, as though he would even consider such a thing. “I'm gonna-- fuck, fuck, _I'm coming_.”  
  
The orgasm flooded her like a tsunami, its force causing her whole body to shudder. She cried out, her voice hoarse and raspy as she rode the wave rioting through her. Her thighs tightened around his head, but he held steady, not breaking contact until he felt her breath hitch up, her hand gently pushing against his head in a signal to stop.  
  
Reluctantly, he pulled away. He rose on his knees to place a final kiss on her mouth.   
  
She could taste herself on his lips, a salty, strange taste made more enticing by being shared. She pressed her forehead to his while she waited for her cognitive function to return, her still breath coming hot and hard.  
  
“Was it as good as you imagined?” he asked her, clearly a bit pleased with himself. After a moment, he turned, blindly groping for his glasses.   
  
“Mmmph,” she hummed, nodding. Her eyes remained closed, as though to open them would reveal it had all been a fever dream. “Oh yeah. Big time stars. A whole constellation.”   
  
When she finally opened her eyes, the look she gave him made his breath catch in his throat. _Illumination_ , he thought. _The world has changed._  
  
“Good,” he said, ghosting a thumb over the rise of her cheekbone. “Because I sure as hell enjoyed myself.”  
  
She pulled him up to her, fitting herself neatly under his arm. “And next week? Will you still feel the same way?”  
  
He turned his head to place a kiss on her forehead. “I'm not sure how I could ever feel otherwise,” he said. It was the closest thing to the truth he would allow himself.  
  
She reached out and grasped his hand. “Good.”

 


End file.
